I don't own anything related to Harry Potter. No spoilers. Oops, almost forgot. Thanks Enigmatic Eel for beta-ing.
Small Cruelties
Seasons change, but memories are forever.
I.
She came to me when I was six, a vision of pastel blue and delicate bone lace, her unruly brown hair tied with a yellow silk ribbon. With a smile, she followed my governess into the study. This young girl's name was Hermione Granger. There was nothing more that I wanted than to take her hand and show her my eagle Percy, my play wand, and the pond in the back – my world. But the chief servant held me back. "She is your servant, not your friend."
At first, I was tentative to share my things. But we grew close. We ran down the dimly-lit corridors – wrapped in layers of clothing during the winter, counted the myriad of black tadpoles in the clear pond during the spring, and deciphered large, dusty tomes in the stuffy library during the autumn, when we weren't sitting side-by-side in the study, learning from old Mrs. Worthington. One time, while we were playing hide-and-seek, I knocked over an ancient urn, one of mother's revered possessions. That night, the chief servant, took her into the library. I followed them, too small, too slow. I heard the crack of a whip, and felt her cry. It stung me. I cried. When she came out, she straightened out her grey dress. She did not look at me, but I saw her tear-stained cheeks and her pink tongue peek from her bee-stung lips to lick at the salty tears. She didn't bawl. Instead, she climbed to the windowsill seat on the third floor stairwell and sat there, careful not to lean her back against the wall. I wanted to tell her it was okay, I wanted to say, 'It's okay 'Mione. Please don't be sad' but I didn't.
Father and Mother had a costume ball for my ninth birthday. We were the perfect family. No one knew that in actuality, Father never taught me how to fish or how to ride my bicycle. He never spoke to me unless it was to tell me I had done something wrong, or tell me to study harder, run faster, or be a man. Mother too, was never there; too busy shopping in the old-world streets of France or Italy. The manor was decorated in green and silver, and the smell from the kitchen was enough to make a person moan in pleasure. I was dressed as King of Bohemia, Emperor Franz Joseph, with gold buttons and military medals I had not earned. Mother always liked to have me dressed smartly – her little doll. There were some boys my age, scuffling their feet on the marble floor, both much taller and wider than I was. I stood next to her. Hermione was dressed in a dull, heavy-looking dress, which looked oddly familiar, like the curtains in the spare room on the second floor, so unlike the diaphanous, silk dress mother wore. Hermione was more beautiful than any other girl in the room, whether they were dressed in expensive violet robes or satin gowns, with animate crystal butterflies in their hair. The other girls had pouts and sour expressions. Hermione had a gentle smile. She was not handsome like my ethereal mother, but striking in her simplicity, her sincerity, and her sharp wit. I heard mother talking to a ruddy-faced woman. The woman said, "Your son ought not to play with that Mudblood. You must send him to boarding school before he goes to Hogwarts. He will gain proper knowledge that will prepare him for success." I frowned.
People always used the word 'Mudblood' but I never thought anything of it. It was as commonly used as 'door' or 'dinner.' I disliked Mudbloods, like my parents, but I never thought of Hermione as one of them. She was not dirty, dishonorable, worthless. She was perfect. She was mine. I did not want to leave. I did not want to depart from her. My friend. I hid in the foyer closet until it was time to serve the cake – a large pirate ship with real firing cannons and a treasure chest with edible gold. Hermione noticed my sullen appearance at the table. She took my hand in hers.
I think I fell in love that day.
II.
Two months later I enrolled at an all-boy's school in northern Scotland. The days were cold and miserable, as frozen as the lake beside the school. No phone calls, no letters, no servants. No pumpkin juice, evening facials, or my favorite salmon and horseradish tea sandwiches. Rather, I was stuck amidst of unruly boys. The two cumbersome boys who went to my party went to the same school. We got along okay. They did whatever I wanted them to. I was their leader. Rather than play football or throw hard balls at each other, I picked leaves off branches, and dropped them from high places. Crabbe and Goyle were supposed to catch them. It was fun watching them stumble, the leaves fluttering before crashing upon the earth. Soon, the days weren't so wretched, though she was always at the back of my mind. During the holidays, I went back to the manor. She wasn't the same. She was dressed as a maid, in dour black, dusting mother's valuables. She looked old.
She was not allowed to speak to me. If she did, she would be beaten. That was made clear on the first night.
I did not understand this. For three years, she had been my friend.
At night, I tiptoed to her room down the hall, careful of the rasping floorboards. She must have heard my leather slippers scraping against the floor, because she sat in her bed, wide-eyed.
"M-Master. Draco," she said quietly.
"Hermione, I have so much to tell you. Mind if I sit?"
She patted her bed, offering me a spot. I sat at the edge of her bed, covered my legs with the warm sheets, and began my story. I was a good storyteller. Her eyes with lit with passion, intrigue and wonderment as she listened to my adventures along the icy riverbanks and skeletal trees. I wished she had been there with me.
"What have you been up to?" I asked sincerely.
She did not look at me in the eyes. She chose her words carefully. "Mrs. Worthington still comes to teach me and… I visit the library once in a while."
"Is something wrong, Hermione?" I noticed hesitation in her voice.
"No-nothing. I just… missed you."
"Me too." I took her hand and brought it to my lips. I placed a friendly kiss in the center of her palm, feeling the calluses below her fingers. I closed her fingers over her palm.
The afternoon I left, she wasn't even there to say goodbye. I was slightly bitter.
I later found out, she had wanted to come send me off, but she was ridding the dungeon of cobwebs.
III.
The next time I saw her, she was on the red Hogwarts Express. I had three suitcases (luckily one of the staff charmed it to shrink). She waved to me shyly; I nodded. When I found out that she was sorted into Gryffindor, I was angry and resentful. It must have been a mistake, though she seemed happy enough. We had many of the same classes together. I wanted to approach her after class, but she was flanked by Ronald Weasley and the golden boy, Harry Potter. My parents had spoken of the latter, how he had defeated the Dark Lord. So what? He was just a baby. It must have been an accident. The Dark Lord was powerful. I had never met him, but I knew.
I felt a surge of angry emotion. I wanted to tell her that she was mine, my friend.
I also hear the older Slytherins talking about her kind, how atrocious were; they didn't deserve to be at Hogwarts. And those who associated with them were, well, scum too. I did not want my house to disown me. My father would be furious.
The school year continued. Summer came. She did not return to the manor. During the muggy evenings, when I couldn't sleep, I would go to her room and remember her. Second year arrived and I was desperate. I wanted, no, needed her companionship – her lively intelligence, her brilliant humor, her unfathomable kindness. It wasn't until one evening in March, when we were alone. I made it out of the castle at six. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded toward the lake. I peered from behind a tree and saw the fleeting pictures of my intrigue – wisps of color – oceanic blue, coral red, golden yellow, forming shapes. This caught my attention. Since I was a child, I was intrigued by magic, illusions, and marvels, whatever they may be. It was art. It was a performance, but of a different kind. Not in a museum, or a gallery. Not something that could be contained in by four walls. They were not just mere colors, but dragonflies. I was surprised to see a girl conjuring the movements of the dragonflies, creating the outline of a rhombus or star. I shivered with excitement. I wanted to meet the master of these ethereal shapes. I was about to make by presence known, when saw a yellow ribbon fluttering in the air. I stepped backwards, into the shadows cast by the tall pine trees, dropping my Ancient Ruins book to the ground. It landed with a thud.
"Who's there?" She said, startled.
"Me. Draco Malfoy."
"Malfoy," she said, with a note of acidity. I was surprised.
I looked back at her, warmly. "Since when have we called each other by our surnames?"
She turned to me, blushing. "It's what everyone else calls you."
"You never follow convention."
She picked a thread of grass, and wrapped it around her finger. "You do know, that we're not supposed to be seen together. Slytherins and Gryffindors. Snake and lion." I stared at her. Had she forgotten all the memories of us at the manor?
"Evil and good? Dark and light? You might as well say all the damn binary opposite! Did you forget about us at the manor?"
"No. Malfoy, I mean, Draco. I was your servant, don't you know that?"
"So?" I said, helplessly. I wanted us to be friends.
"Don't act so stubborn. I was just a plaything."
"You're my friend."
Her eyes flickered for a fleeting moment. "Things change." She stood up, and before I could make a move, she was gone.
I resented her. I hated the fact that she had forgotten. I locked myself in my dorm. I tried to forget her.
Impossible.
Somehow, we always met each other. Somewhere. Someway.
IV.
While we were in Herbology during third year, Weasel spilled a pot of stewing herbs. Hermione bent down to pick up the glass absentmindedly. She winced.
"It's acid, 'Mione!"
Foolish girl. Doesn't she know that it tears me up inside to see her hurt? I wanted to rush up to her, in all my hormonal rage, and scream at her for being so careless and kiss her wounds and carry her to her dorm and tuck her into her bed. I wanted to make everything alright. She had saved me from my loneliness at the manor.
And the git called her 'Mione. That was my name for her! Mine, mine, MINE! Without realizing, I had clenched my fists. They were white with fury. I could have punched his freckled face.
V.
Girls were always flocking to me. I was like a fucking whirlwind, drawing them in. I was a whirlwind on the inside too; my emotions ran amok. I had not spoken to her since second year. The silence was unbearable. I turned into a green monster, yelling, taunting at first years. In the Great Hall, I saw her laughing with the two buffoons, merry. He notices everything about her, remembering.
I didn't know how I did so well in school. I guess in part, it was because of her. She had been my studying partner at the manor. She taught me gold study habits.
I was trudging through the snow to Hogsmeade, wearing my coat hood up, when I heard a sniffle behind me. I wanted to turn around and tell the person to shut the fuck up. I couldn't think with those obnoxious noises. I spun around, my mouth open. She looked petrified.
She gathered her emotions before saying, "You fucking killed my parents!"
A solitary tear slide down her ashen, frozen cheek. An unearthly ice princess.
I walked over to her, and put my arms around her. She was trembling. She didn't push me away. "I'm sorry," I said.
"The Death Eaters killed them," she sobbed. My stomach flip-flopped. I wanted to fix things. Her hair flew in different directions, but she smelled of sweet oranges.
"Please don't cry." I was being honest. I couldn't stand to see her cry, just like all those years ago, when she was flogged.
Despite avoiding me for the past few years, she released everything. She told me she remembered everything. She loved me. She avoided me, because she thought that I could never look at her as anything more than a common maid. She told me that I was too rich and too different. But I told her that wasn't true. We loved books and the manor. We liked to travel through hidden passages behind paintings, with nothing but a candlestick and our imaginations. We liked to swim in the pond; we weren't afraid to feel the flicker of tadpoles on our legs. We liked to lounge in the sunroom, our pale skin absorbing the warm sun, reading fantasy novels. We did simple, innocuous magic, changing a dandelion into a pretty white rose, or making a fish leap out of the water, like a dolphin.
She stared at me, melancholic. "We can't be together."
"What?" He looked into her sincere brown eyes.
She looked away from his steely grey eyes. "It could never be. You know that."
"Why? I'm fucking willing to try, but you are so stubborn and self-pitying. If we care about each other, it can happen."
Her eyes were wide, and he took his chance to show her what he meant. He kissed her soft lips; they tasted of spicy mint toothpaste and pumpkin juice. He was intrigued, dizzy. He had fallen deeper, and knew he wouldn't be able to let her go.
"Please give me a chance," he murmured into her neck.
END.
A/N: I left that on a bittersweet note. I hope every enjoyed this look into their childhoods. I'd love to hear your thoughts.